


Leitha

by fairywine



Series: aushunweek2018 [2]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: F/M, aushunweek2018, historical fic, the austro-hungarian compromise
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-21
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-30 19:30:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,475
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15758217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairywine/pseuds/fairywine
Summary: “Between Neudörfl and Gattendorf, the Leitha River had formed the historic boundary between Austria and Hungary after 1048. The river become a symbol of the boundary so that the two halves of the dual monarchy were often referred to as Trans-Leithania (Hungary), and Cis-Leithania (Austria).” -Andrew Frank Burghardt, The Political Geography of BurgenlandJune 8th, 1868. It's not your typical first wedding anniversary. But for Nations in general, and Austria and Hungary in particular, this is unsurprising. (AusHun Week 2018, prompt: first)





	Leitha

“ _Between Neudörfl and Gattendorf, the Leitha River had formed the historic boundary between Austria and Hungary after 1048. The river become a symbol of the boundary so that the two halves of the dual monarchy were often referred to as Trans-Leithania (Hungary), and Cis-Leithania (Austria)_.” -Andrew Frank Burghardt, _The Political Geography of Burgenland_

* * *

“You won’t have to stay long. Just enough to be...seemly.”

Hungary turns her head from where she had been gazing out the gilt-framed window of the carriage. Outside the heart of Pest streams by, the buildings glowing with lights shining cheerfully in the night’s darkness. She lifts a steady brow at her prime minister, who to his credit meets it unflinchingly. But both she and Gyula Andrássy have been through enough to know there are far worse things to receive than a cool stare.

“I know what is needed of me, Count Andrássy.” Hungary rests gloved hands neatly in her lap, smooths out the finely embroidered half-apron that is part of her traditional court dress. A little over a year ago, and for centuries preceding it, the only aprons she usually wore had been plain white cotton, soft from frequent washings, a rag in one pocket and a knife in the other. A maid’s apron, suitable for a humble servant. Now look at her. “The Dual Monarchy need not fear any lapse in manners from the Kingdom of Hungary.”

Andrássy is too consummate a politician to let his feelings show, but Hungary knows what he’s thinking. That from the perspective of the western half of the empire it’s only a matter of time before the wild Magyars act out again.

“The compromise has managed to hold for a year,” Andrássy carefully says. “Tonight, we have passed out first great hurdle. What lies before us now is the importance of building upon what we’ve accomplished.”

Hungary can’t help but look outside again. It’s a balmy summer night in Pest, the streets thronged with people. Everywhere Hungary’s flag abounds, the peerlessly beautiful _piros, fehér, zöld_ with her coat of arms center to declare its sovereignty to the world. Through the lavish shell of Andrássy’s carriage she can hear a lively csárdás being played on a violin, can see people dancing and children running around.

For all the festivities, the underlying emotion in the air is a tension pulled tight as piano wire. People are commemorating the first anniversary of Austria-Hungary more out of a sense of obligation than joy. Overall, even the brightest moods are shot through with an uneasy edge. By the standards of Magyar celebrations, June 8th, 1868 is a poor showing. As with so many things concerning her land, Hungary accepts this is the best anyone can do, given the circumstances.

“There’s no need for such reminders,” Hungary says. “Compared to what I’ve been through in the past, even this half-loaf of a union is like a happy dream. And once my authority is more fully settled, well…”

“Half-loaf?” Andrássy repeats.

“Better than none,” Hungary explains, earning a short but hearty laugh from the prime minister. “And already paying dividends. I can be polite and toast to the glory of the _Osztrák-Magyar Monarchia_ if it means having what’s rightfully mine again.”

The carriage bumps a little on the last bit of road before they pass onto the awesome span of the Chain Bridge. The jostling is uncomfortable despite as well built a vehicle as Andrássy’s, more so when one is tightly corseted and layered up with what feels like a thousand starched petticoats. Hungary makes a mental note to remind her king that public works projects are a reliable way to build up local goodwill, specifically nice, _smooth_ roads.

Andrássy inclines his dark head in agreement as they cross the Danube. “Especially once the matter of Croatia’s status is finalized. I have great hopes of the settlement we’ve arranged.”

“Which, God willing, shouldn’t be too much longer,” Hungary grouses, resting her head tiredly against the back of her seat. It makes the pins holding the elegant coiffure her hair has been braided stab into her scalp. But that’s mild compared to some of the headaches her southern Slavs have given her since the Compromise was made official. “Croatia demands so much from me he’s practically declared independence himself.”

“ _Horvát Királyság_ asks for all he can, knowing he will ultimately end up with much less,” Andrássy assures her. “You may stay confident knowing you ultimately hold the winning hand.”

The carriage leaves the Chain Bridge much more easily than it had entered, making the leftward turn on the road leading to the Royal Palace. Noticing Andrássy studying her, Hungary follows the path of his gaze to where it rests on her hands. Covered by her short-length evening gloves, the bulge of the ring on Hungary’s right hand is still unmistakable. A year’s time of wearing the band and she still feels the weight of it like an anchor.

“It is likewise encouraging that we’ve had no interference from,” a delicate pause, “Other quarters.”

Politicians will be politicians no matter what. Andrássy is exquisitely outfitted in his _díszmagyar_ , mente coat draped over one shoulder, dolman shirt of fine silk and pants of rich velvet-a fairytale prince of medieval times. But his dark, intense eyes show he to be a thoroughly modern statesman beneath the pageantry. Under Andrássy’s süveg fur cap Hungary can practically see his mind roaring away, always examining every angle and choice. This happens often enough, the men who look and see a young maiden rather than the centuries old land she truly is, but it never stops being annoying. Or unwanted.

“My _husband_ , you mean,” Hungary says directly. “No, Austria has been the very soul of reticence. I’ve barely seen him a handful of times since the wedding.”

Andrássy wants to probe more, it’s obvious. But how to do it while balancing his gentlemanly ideals-and to his adored Nation-seems to elude him. It’s just as well, as the carriage has finally completed its ascension up Castle Hill to pull into the main courtyard of the Royal Palace, its stately facade glowing brightly from within as well as the many light poles placed about the enclosure.

It takes only a moment for the guards to observe Andrássy’s coat of arms on his carriage door and ascertain they are not just in the presence of the prime minister but the Nation herself.  Swiftly, the vehicle’s door swings open to reveal a line of eight footmen on either side, at fullest attention for their most honored guests. Ever the Magyar gentleman, Andrássy helps Hungary out, an act she greatly appreciates considering the long train of her dress. A deep bow before holding his arm out for her to take, and Andrássy leads them both behind yet more footmen into the castle proper.

The Royal Palace has worn many faces since Hungary roamed the stone halls of the residence constructed by King Béla IV six hundred years ago as a young girl. (Who had been still firmly convinced she was a boy.) It hadn’t lasted, but later kings had replaced the structure with newer palaces in the same location, following the artistic trends in vogue at the time of their respective reigns. King Sigismund had made it a Gothic masterpiece fit for the Holy Roman Emperor, Matthias Corvinus a Renaissance-influenced wonder for his Italian bride. All beautiful, in their own ways.

Then Mohács happened, and in the ensuing 158 year tug of war between Austria and Turkey over Hungary’s lands, the castle was destroyed down to practically nothing. Even the splendid Baroque building Maria Theresa had rise from the ruins had fallen to her ever-tragic luck. Like so much else, it had been a victim of Austria’s suppression of the 1848 rebellions. Yet restoration and reconstruction had their effect, the proud Neoclassical palace rather neatly mirroring Hungary’s own shift from servility to full autonomy and ruling half the empire.

Hungary can’t really say how she feels about it overall, not with the failures and sorrow of 1848 so fresh in her mind. At least it is preferable to ruination. Perhaps with time she can know her own heart on the subject, and maybe even grow to love it. The Royal Palace can’t help being what it is-it’s up to Hungary to make the most of things.

The hundreds of beeswax candles setting the interior aglow make the French Rococo-style glitter brilliantly. Between the crystals and lights and gold it feels like another world. A world whose reason for existing is to declare the power, wealth, and prestige of its owner. That said owner is ultimately _her_ is a fact Hungary still can’t fully wrap her head around. She has yet to abandon the natural reflex to look at such splendor and think of how much wax will be needed to make the mahogany wood gleam, how much soap and water to mop the marble, and plenty of rags for dusting every last blessed knickknack in the room.

“Are you ready?” Andrássy murmurs at a volume meant for Hungary’s ears alone. With a barely concealed jolt she realizes they’ve arrived at the main ballroom entrance, only moments to go before they’re announced. Not for the first time, the Nation is grateful for her prime minister’s natural attentiveness.

“Of course,” Hungary says, fixing a smile on her face that strikes an appropriate balance between brightness and dignity. Seeing little point in putting the moment off, Hungary gives a regal nod the pair of footmen waiting at attention. With a single smooth motion they swing open the gilt-laden double doors.

“Her Royal Apostolic Highness, the Lands of the Crown of Saint Stephen, the Kingdom of Hungary!”

There must be at least three hundred people in the ballroom, which is somehow even more intensely lit that the rest of the Royal Palace. Yet a worshipful silence falls upon them as one. Even the musicians falter for a moment in their playing of a Donizetti Quartetto before remembering themselves and returning to their instruments. Keenly aware of every eye, Hungary doesn’t let her calm smile slip.

“His Excellency the Right Honorable Count Gyula Andrássy de Csíkszentkirály et Krasznahorka!”

Hungary can easily see the entrance as the guests must. Andrássy, the very essence of the noble Magyar magnate. So darkly handsome with just a hint of danger in his smouldering gaze to contrast the opulence of his dress. Guiding in the Nation, grand and beautiful in her court dress and veil, bearing a diamond and pearl tiara befitting her status as a royal land. The Kingdom of Hungary, having endured hundreds of years of humiliation and torment, finally being accorded the rank deserved to her by the will of God Himself. She can practically envision the tableau being painted, complete with title. _Hungaria Being Guided By The Saving Hand Of Her Greatest Patriot._

Italics and all.

It’s not like Hungary doesn’t understand. To have their beloved Nation standing before them, clad in finery and commanding the respect, however willingly given, due to a Great Power...it’s a dream of centuries fulfilled. Falling short of the long prayed for independence, but at least a start in righting so many wrongs.

While the room is overflowing with the crème de la crème of Buda and Pest society-and thus anyone who’s _anyone_ in Hungary-most have never seen their Nation with their own eyes. A concept of statehood made flesh and blood always takes adjusting to. But for those who _have_ met Hungary, who have been by her during times far removed from the elegant gentility of the ballroom, it’s a tiring reaction. Mόr Perczel, only recently back from exile, had seen her bloodied and half-dead at the Battle of Temesvár. Given Hungary moonshine from his flask to dull the pain of the bullets being removed from her skin. Yet like all the others, revolution veterans and aristocrats alike, he looks upon her as if she’s some sort of goddess. Flawless. Divine.

It makes Hungary think of Austria, strangely. For all her husband’s myriad flaws (ones she’s accumulated quite the list of over centuries of living in his house), he’s at least never put her on a ridiculous pedestal. Certainly _he’d_ have no sort of discomfit with this kind of pomp and importance. It does amuse Hungary to think of him up in Vienna for his own celebrations, having to take congratulations for a successful diminishing of his own power with lordly grace. How each anniversary felicitation must sting at proud, pretty Ausztria!

Hungary’s inner mirth proves fortifying to her spirits, and she is able to get through what seems like an endless stream of well-wishers without feeling miserable. And she does truly enjoy being among her people, especially those who so dearly love her. Ferenc Deák greets Hungary as gently as she was his own daughter. Mihály Zichy declares his desire to paint her, and her eyes can’t help but dance at his cheek. Even Franz Liszt makes a valiant effort at conversing in the Magyar tongue before giving up and switching to German.

Hungary does not mind this part of public engagements, but it is tiring. Helping herself to a glass of wonderful white wine from Neszemély off a passing waiter’s tray helps revive her. But there is still a rather glaring absence, one Hungary had hoped would be resolved by now.

“Her Royal Majesty has yet to make an appearance?” Hungary asks Deák quietly, taking advantage of the rare solitude they share.

“I understand she is to be expected in short order,” Deák says with a dignified shrug. “Of course, that is always what is said at events like as this.”

“Worry not, my dear friend,” Hungary says, an idea striking her. “Such instances are when those of my ilk prove most valuable.”

“Is that so?” Deák looks Hungary over skeptically, knowing well what her face looks like when she’s about to push propriety.

“I insist,” Hungary says, passing her empty glass off to yet another waiter. “It is nothing less than attending to my duties as a partner of the Dual Monarchy.”

Deák doesn’t look convinced, but he doesn’t stop Hungary’s discreet exit out of the ballroom either. After all, there are few who better know the relationship of country and monarch as he. In this, Hungary’s judgment should be deferred to.

* * *

 

To some it might be surprising to have so few people around in such a large palace. Only those privileged enough to be frequent guests of the royal private apartments know that is the resident’s particular preference. When Hungary makes her way into the suite, she only sees two ladies-in-waiting in attendance. Just past them is the queen’s personal hairdresser Franziska Feifalik, tools of her trade held in white-gloved hands. Upon Hungary’s entrance all rise before falling into graceful curtsies.

“Kingdom of Hungary,” Franziska says in German, being one of the queen’s few servants who doesn’t speak Hungarian. “How may I be of service?”

“All I think I need is to follow you,” Hungary says lightly.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t even need to do that much, your Royal Highness,” Franziska smiles. “It is no great mystery.”

Franziska indeed guides Hungary through the royal quarters into the exact room she guessed she would end up. While it is as fantastically ornate as every other room in the palace, there are enough personal touches to give it a gentler, more inviting air. It’s a dream of nursery, eminently suitable for a tiny princess.

The most beautiful woman in the world is inside it.

Upon seeing Hungary, her impossibly perfect face relaxes into a smile so lovely the Nation momentarily loses the ability to remember what words are.  Or how one puts them together coherently. Thankfully her reflexes remain, and Hungary dips into a deep curtsey before the Empress of Austria and her own Queen.

“Ah, my dearest Hungary,” Elisabeth says softly in her flawless Hungarian, pressing a gentle kiss to her cheek. “As always, it is so good to see you.”

“Indeed, Sisi,” Hungary says with equal quietness, glad to dispense with the needed demonstration of formality. The queen is one of her truest and deepest friends. The adoration of the Magyar people for the “Beautiful Providence” of the land is so strong it can overwhelm Hungary as a person. But she truly treasures the intimacy, and knows Elisabeth does too. As one they lean over the cradle where the Archduchess Marie Valerie sleeps as soundly as any other infant.

“I know I should have made my appearance already,” Elisabeth says, brushing the faintest touch across her daughter’s forehead. “One look at her sweet face and I couldn’t break away for anything.”

“I wouldn’t either from such an angel,” Hungary agrees. Elisabeth has endured so much loneliness, misery, and deep loss, the kind that transformed Franz Joseph’s naive Wittelsbach bride into the brilliant, distant diamond of a women she is today. For now at least, her face glows with a rare joy that makes her already incredible beauty almost impossible to withstand.  Hungary can only pray that it lasts, for the strong woman who has proven to be the great salvation of the Hungarians.

“I can already see so much of Franzi in her face,” Elisabeth says, and even Hungary couldn’t really discern the true emotion in her tone.

“I’ll have to think on that next time I see his Imperial and Royal Majesty,” Hungary offers neutrally. “I’m due for a meeting in Vienna next week.”

“How stalwart you are, dear Hungary. To bear the burden of dealing with both your husband and mine at the same time.” With one last caress of her daughter’s downy hair, Elisabeth sits down in a nearby chair. A tall woman, this makes it much easier for Franziska to do some final touch-ups on her famously long, lustrous, chestnut-brown hair. As usual it is pulled up in elaborate, heavy braids, through which the adept hairdresser has wound several pearls. Examining the queen with an artist’s critical eyes, Franziska sets about making the tiny changes necessary to take the style from merely beautiful to sublime.

“I hope things have been...acceptable, with Austria,” Elisabeth adds, dark eyes looking compassionately at Hungary. The Nation is well aware how familiar her queen is with unhappiness in a marriage. It is just one of the many sorrows Sisi has been plagued with since joining the House of Habsburg.

“I got everything I hoped for out of my first wedding anniversary,” Hungary says honestly. “I still have my status, attended to my people, and spent time with you, my Queen.”

“I suppose that is enough,” Elisabeth replies. Of course she understands.

“Austria probably still hasn’t recovering from having to bend his will a fraction. If he had brought out poetry and flowers I might have fallen over with shock,” Hungary says, smiling a little to ease her dear friend.

There had been times in the past where Austria had been kind. Even sweet and tender. Counting off sheep to his maid and wards so they could sleep. The times when he would listen to Hungary sing as she worked, trying not to make obvious he was listening and liked it. Helping bandage up the wounds she had received kicking Prussia out during the War of Austrian Succession. Making such grand promises under Maria Theresa’s reign, ones that moved her heart as easily as a green girl’s.

If only Hungary could have married him a century ago. She had such hope then, such wonderful dreams. Had been ready to let ‘Austria, sir’ all the way into her heart. If only he had kept his promises, instead of letting the problems of his empire fester as he bound Hungary tighter.

Which leads them to here and now. A thousand years, and she and Austria can’t even talk to each other without a government mandate involved. It wasn’t what Hungary would have ever hoped for. But like so much else, it’s what she’s got.

Elisabeth rises, hair ministrations complete, and Hungary links arms with her.

“Now let me show my dedication and loyalty by escorting my exquisite queen to her most adoring citizens,” Hungary says grandly. It will be enjoyable, and a welcome respite of the impossible boil of emotions thinking of Austria always puts her into.

Hopefully.

* * *

 

By the time Hungary makes it back to the home she has in western Buda, her head rings a little with the weight of her hair, and much more with too much wine imbibed and unavoidable tobacco smoke breathed in. She barely remembers to wave Andrássy’s carriage off before her butler lets her in. He, her maids, and the house itself had all been wedding gifts, befitting the grandness of a full partner in a Great Power. More likely because the whole of Austria would probably die of mortification to have their Nation married to someone living in a tidy but small country house in outer Pest who dressed and cleaned for herself.

Still, Hungary’s grateful for it in this instance. Her every need is immediately seen to: butler taking her thin silk shawl, one maid escorting Hungary up to her bedroom to help her undress while another brings up a tray with an steaming cup of coffee and some crackers. Hungary downs it as her maid carefully removes her expensive jewelry to be safely locked away. The beverage does take the edge off her headache, at least.

“I hope the celebrations went well, your Highness,” the maid says cheerfully, setting the end of Hungary’s train to the part of her dress where she fastens it up and out of the way. It makes it less likely to be stepped on during her tasks, as well as easier for Hungary to sit during them. Doing so, the Nation looks into her dressing room mirror. Still beautifully clad, a perfect Magyar princess. But what is she now, anyway? Not a stranger to herself, but not holding all the answers either.

“Yes, very,” Hungary responds, realizing she let the question hang for far too long. Lost in her work, the girl just hums in response. Carefully she removes pin after pin from Hungary’s hair, leaving it to tumble down to her waist in a mass of cinnamon-hued waves. The style the humble Habsburg maid had worn, but combined with the finest court dress available in all the Lands of the Crown of Saint Stephen. Suddenly, Hungary can barely breathe, the edges of her vision going black.

“I’m going outside for some air,” Hungary says abruptly, rushing to stand. Startled, her lady’s maid only has time for a squeak before the Nation flees the dressing room. Dashing down the stairs, she shoves the front door open to head into the gentle night. Chest heaving, Hungary looks around, takes in the quiet of Buda in the late hour. Only faint noises from the occasional passing carriage disrupt the silence.

Instinct wins. Hungary runs. Runs in the way of Nations, beings who are people and state but also the earth. Who can shrink leagues down to nothing, who can cross their territories in minutes and continents in a hour. There is nothing in her mind but flight, heading west. Esztergom, Tatabánya, Komárno, Győr, all blur before Hungary’s eyes before disappearing just as quickly. The mindless panic starts to lessen around Sopron, and by the time she reaches the woods of Királyhida, the Nation has slowed to a normal walking pace.

Immediately, the pain of running so hard in a corset makes itself known, even if Hungary doesn’t lace herself as obsessively tight as her queen. Somewhere along the way her dainty dancing slippers fell off, leaving her stockings torn and feet bleeding from several cuts. With a groan, Hungary tears the useless hose off and tosses them aside along with her garter ribbons. Then a couple of petticoats for good measure, since if she’s going to look a fright it may as well be a comfortable one.

Hungary pats down her hair in what is probably a futile effort, and ruefully surveys her gown. Grass and mud stains dot the hem, and on her left there’s a rip about as long as her palm. Hungary isn’t really worried-her staff is clever and skilled enough to repair the damage-just annoyed she couldn’t at least have kept things together long enough to change into a less expensive and delicate dressing gown. She sighs, feeling the weight of everything on her shoulder get just a little bit heavier.

Hungary should return to Buda, but...it’s so nice out, so peaceful. Just sitting down for a moment and letting her aching body recover sounds heavenly. In the distance, she can hear the sound of running water. Hungary knows it well, has known it nearly her entire existence. It is but a short walk through the dark woods to reach the river.

The Leitha streams by as it has for millennia, shimmering like fine blue silk under the fat waxing moon. It’s been a dry year, the water much lower from the banks than it usually is, but even that doesn’t diminish the sight. There’s an outcropping of nice, flat rocks right at the edge of the waters. Hungary imagines children jumping off them on hot summer days, fishermen resting while patiently waiting for their lines to tug. It makes her smile a little, and after carefully gathering her dress up and sitting down she takes inspiration from the Királyhida locals and dips in her feet.

Nothing can describe how refreshing and cool the Leitha waters feel against Hungary’s sore feet and calves. Away from the frenzy of her daily life, with the peaceful woods around her and the simple pleasure of a river-soak, the Nation closes her eyes and lets the tension of the anniversary drain away.

A rustle snaps Hungary out of her comfortable reverie. Not loud, but standing out amidst the ambient noises of nature. The night has been such she’s tempted to dismiss what she sees, but no. There is Austria on the western bank of the Leitha, every bit the impeccable Imperial aristocrat in his gala uniform. Collar starched, whites crisp, medals polished to a gleam only his evening shoes match in sheer shininess. It makes her feel the total disarray she’s in all the more keenly.

“Austria, sir-” Hungary stops herself forcefully, pressing her lips together. She’s _not_ a maid anymore, dammit. The last thing she should be doing is stammering at her husband like scullery wench caught above stairs, regardless of how messy she looks. She’s Austria’s equal now, and will act it.

“Good evening, Austria,” Hungary tries again, calm and polite. “I hope your anniversary festivities were enjoyable.”

This looks like about the last reaction her spouse expects, but he rallies near instantly.

“Very much indeed, thank you,” Austria answers, nothing in his voice indicating his personal feelings on the matter. He may as well have mentioned the weather for all the emotion he’s displayed. Violet eyes flick up and down, examining her with glowing alarm. “Are you in need of assistance?”

No withering comment on Hungary’s less than perfect appearance? Pre-marriage Austria (pre-this _specific_ marriage, she mentally amends) would have never let that slide. Dishevelment had always indicated serious character flaws in his ordered world.

“I’m fine.” Hungary draws her knees up to her chest, and though Austria looks politely away he definitely takes a moment to do so.

“You were throwing your,” Austria pauses. Some aspects of Nationhood are beyond the ability of any language to capture, even for Nations themselves. “Your land-authority about with great abandon. When I felt you heading in the direction of the border I thought you were under attack.”

“Attack?” Hungary echoes, looking down at herself, then adjusting to what it must look like from her husband’s perspective. Suddenly his reaction made much more sense.

“I could not imagine you would come so near my half of the empire otherwise.”

“...it was just...something I needed to do,” Hungary says, _really_ not wishing to explain her actions in great detail. She winces slightly as her still raw soles rub painfully on the stone. The cuts she had gotten must be deeper than she thought. For a Nation it’ll be no time at all to heal, but none of them are immune to pain. “I’ll be off in a bit. You don’t need to worry about anything.”

“You are my wife. It would be remiss of me not to be concerned,” Austria says. His tone is still even, but Hungary recognizes the look on his face. Austria is worked up about the situation. And a worked up Austria can be very, very unpredictable.

Sure enough, Hungary proves to be correct. Austria pulls off his gloves, tucking them neatly into his belt. Despite his stiff uniform he manages to kneel down and start unlacing his shoes with great speed.

“What are you doing?!” Hungary yelps, jaw actually dropping when Austria pulls off his shoes and socks.

“Merely being sensible,” Austria says, holding the articles in the crook of his arm. “Even on a warm night leather would take a while drying out, to say nothing of the condition it would be left in. And walking in wet socks is simply unpleasant.”

Beyond astonished, Hungary can only watch with eyes that must be saucer huge. Austria-fastidious, immaculate Austria-strolls into the Leitha with as much nonchalance as if he were walking along the Ringstraße. They’re at one of the shallower points of the river, the dry year lowering the level even more, but Austria still ends up soaked up to his knees. Hungary can’t help it and lightly slaps her cheek. The very real twinge of pain proves this isn’t some hallucination brought on by oxygen loss via running in a tight corset. Even then she can barely believe its real.

Austria emerges from the river and sets foot on the eastern bank- _Hungary’s_ side of the Leitha. Setting his things down on another rock, her husband motions her over silently as he kneels.

“Your foot, if you please,” Austria says in response to her blank look. “One at a time.”

“They’re wet,” Hungary says in feeble protest, but lifts her left leg up anyway. Right now it at least means Austria isn’t looking at her face, gone crimson with the force of her blushing.

Almighty God, what a fool Hungary is. Having complicated feelings about Austria, a Gordian-knot like tangle of emotions and memories both good and bad, is one thing. Her most powerful neighbor, one she shares a direct border with. Naturally their fates would always be linked, one way or another.

But for all the past they share, the injuries and indignities Hungary has endured because of Austria...she never learns. One gentlemanly act, one of those rare moments where he lets the iron-clad armor of his rank and power relax, and the anger starts slipping away. And a great kingdom, a warrior who had been so fearsome people had prayed to God to be spare from her arrows, is reduced to a maiden with chest fluttering and head filled with rosy, hopeful dreams.

How many times had Austria made his promises, only to forget them at best or break them at worst? And how many times had Hungary fallen for it? The only thing that is different now is Austria hasn’t found a way to wiggle out of his obligations. At least, not so far.

It’s cool reasoning. Hungary only wishes her racing heart would understand what her mind does. Staring at the top of Austria’s dark head, bent over while long pianist’s fingers handle her with such care, makes any sort of progress on this front impossible. His right hand grips her calf to hold it steady, wedding band cool on her hot skin, and  Hungary’s embarrassment multiplies tenfold. Which is beyond ridiculous, given Austria has, to put it politely, definitely had his hands on more than a bare leg in the past. At least during the times things were good between them.

“It seems your cuts are not very deep,” Austria says, mercifully unaware of Hungary’s line of thought. “Clean as well.”

“I’d have never guessed from how you were fussing,” Hungary says as Austria checks her other foot. She’s not eager to get back home home on them, but she’s definitely been able to ignore worse under harder conditions. “Marriage hasn’t made me soft yet.”

“Oh, I do pray not,” Austria murmurs. His face is hard to see from the angle she’s at, but Hungary is positive she catches a faint smile curling at the corner of his mouth. “It is a great shame, but unlike your other enemies I do not think you will be able to take your frying pan and pound your feet into submission.”

Hungary’s eyes narrow to green slits, but Austria pays her dangerous expression no mind. Taking out a handkerchief from his pocket, Austria unfolds it all the way before gripping it firmly at the middlemost portion of the top. It’s a beautiful piece of snowy linen, elegantly embroidered with a scarlet _Ö_ monogram, and when her husband rips it neatly in half Hungary can’t help her cry of dismay.

“It is merely a handkerchief,” Austria says, looking surprised. Which means his eyes lift a fraction of a second before falling into their usual place of stately calm. Carefully he winds a strip of linen around Hungary’s left then right foot, after which he examines the results carefully. “Fortunately you have small feet and it was just enough fabric, or this might have not worked out so well.”

Hungary stares down at her bound feet, which do feel better for the impromptu bandages. The _Ö_ stands out like a brand, but can she even argue it doesn’t have some justification? If Hungary was able to be truly independent and stand on her own without Austria in the picture, she would have done so successfully by now. Instead here she is, lost by the river and having to be bailed out by her husband again. To Hungary’s horror, her eyes start to well up. Not here, not in front of _him_.

“Thank you for your h-help,” Hungary says, and oh God her voice chokes up. Austria starts, and there are very few things Hungary wouldn’t give right now to just throw herself in the Leitha and never come out again. “I-it was very...very…”

The one time Austria actually looks flustered and Hungary can’t even savor it. His mouth opens and shuts several times as she fails to get herself under control. Austria stands, and for a second Hungary thinks he’s about to leave her to her mortification. Then he sits next to her on the rock, as gingerly if she’s a stack of dynamite and he’s a lit match. Silently, Austria slips a hand underneath the flap of his bright white Field Marshal dress jacket and pulls out a silver flask to hold to Hungary.

On an evening less filled with strangeness Hungary would have been utterly dumbfounded. But their one year anniversary has decidedly not fit into that category, and so she wipes hard at her eyes before grabbing the flask. The _Marillenschnaps is_ very good, richly scented with the aroma of ripe apricots, sliding smoothly down the throat even as it lights a fire in the blood. So good in fact, Hungary decides to compliment it by taking another swig, and then a third. She passes it back to Austria, who polishes off the rest of it.

“I didn't want to marry you and you didn't want to marry me,” Hungary says. There is no rancor to be heard in her words, and she feels none. It's a truth, plain and simple. If anything it's a relief to not to keep it locked away, when the two of them know better. She stares at the Leitha foggily, the schnapps being quite a bit stronger than she had credited. Hungary only wishes Austria had a second flask secreted somewhere on his Imperial person.

“An accurate summation,” Austria agrees, looking for a second something like melancholy. He gives his head a quick toss, evidently also feeling the effects of the apricot spirits. “Which brings us to the question at the heart of the matter. Where do you want to go from here?”

“I don't know,” Hungary says honestly. “And even if I did, it would only make a difference if it complimented what you want.”

One hundred years ago. If only they could have worked out their arrangement then. Hungary would have run into Austria's arms as joyfully as any bride, Maria Teresa smiling down at them both as the benevolent mother-Queen. It might not have been all she wanted, but still plenty enough.

“Just think of one thing, of the here and now. If you can,” Austria says, almost as if he needs her to do it for them both. To voice what he could never bring himself to.

“ I'd like... I'd like to be able to talk with you like this again. without needing alcohol, or me losing my slippers and looking like I crashed right into a bush,” Hungary answers slowly. She thinks of Franz Joseph and Elisabeth, how the love once there withered without understanding and compromise to make it flourish. Thinks of her beautiful queen, who has suffered such misery, and the emperor in his loneliness. Too far apart now to ever reconnect on a marital level.

Hungry doesn't know if she could let herself love Austria with the whole of her wild heart. But she doesn't want to live a life of coldness, tied to a distant stranger who she used to know. Truly falling is too much to dream of now. What isn't then?

“Can we try being a better husband and wife?”

Austria looks at her, face unguarded for once.

“Neither of us is naive enough to hope for... for human things, a human marriage,” Hungary elaborates. This is what things have come to for them, the Magyar warrior who isn't brave enough to say ‘ _love_ ’. “But I can try to be a good partner to you. If you're a good partner to me.”

Austria absorbs this silently, removing his glasses. His hand drifts towards his pocket before he evidently recalls his handkerchief is currently on his wife's person. He settles instead for wiping the lenses on his jacket before returning them to the bridge of his nose.

“Then we will both make the effort, and…” Austria thinks. “Here at the Leitha, a year from now. We will meet and decide what step to take next.”

It's not the world, but they're much too wizened by this point to make the lofty promises of starry-eyed romantics. This plan, however, is believable. Sensible. Not much to lose, but potentially much to gain. Hungary nods in approval, holding her arm out as boldly as any man. Austria hesitates for a moment, but reaches out to clasp her hand in his. Husband and wife shake on their plan, and to hope.

“Happy anniversary,” Hungary says, and if her smile is small it is also genuine. Her brow knits slightly as she looks up at the sky, trying to judge the time.” I think it's till the day.”

“For another four minutes and...sixteen seconds more,”Austria confirms, checking his pocket watch.

“I suppose I owe you an anniversary gift,” Hungary muses, wiggling her feet in their former-handkerchief bound glory. “Not that I have anything much on me at the moment.”

“Perhaps a kiss, then?”  

Hungary turns to Austria in a flash, but a single glance reveals her husband to be in total seriousness. Well, whatever his angle, the least she can do is match it.

“ _One_. And I pick where.”

“To be renegotiated in a year's time,” Austria counters. Hungary thinks it over before nodding her assent to his terms.

“My right hand, for however long is left in the day.”

“A minute and forty-nine seconds,” Austria murmurs, snapping the light of his pocket watch shut. “If you are ready?”

Hungary holds out her hand, still gloved in fine, thin, white kid leather. Austria takes it, long, nimble fingers dancing over her palm like he wants to memorize the feel of it. To her surprise, Austria doesn't merely take his kiss and be done with it. Instead, he glides slightly past her wrist, to the small line of pearls buttoning it up tightly.

“Austria,” Hungary starts, blush swiftly reviving. Her husband merely hums, undoing one button at a time with no sense of haste. “You only have-”

“ I know the time. Any good musician has an innate sense of its flow,” Austria says, with a calm that's nearly infuriating compared to the little sparks Hungary feels when his bare fingers brush against the tender skin of her inner arm. “I assure you, I will keep to our terms.”

Hungary wants to point out she should have had the sense to define said terms much more stringently. But the retort refuses to form as Austria slowly loosens the glove’s fingers one by one, sliding it off with what feels like infinite slowness.

Now that Hungary's hand is bare to the world-bare but for her wedding ring- Austria takes it in his own. It's a hand that still holds the history of Hungary's previous station: sword calluses, rein-marks, dry spots from doing the laundry in huge boiling copper pots. He grips her hand reverently, lifting it gently to his mouth.  

Hungary shivers as she feels the air of the tiny sigh Austria lets out. Then he _finally_ presses soft lips to her hand, and lightning runs straight up and down her spine. Damn him for playing so unfairly, and her for so easily giving into it!

Austria slowly separates from her hand, still letting it rest in his. Their eyes lock, and for a single, crystalline-fragile moment there is no one else in the world but the two of them.

“I think you must have gone over your time,” Hungary says, barely recognizing her voice for how breathy it's become.

“Actually, I had five more seconds,” Austria tells her after taking a look at his watch. Not his voice has gotten somewhat breathy too _and_ dropped noticeably goes a long way to making Hungary feel better about her own reaction. “And now, the new day.”

Much like Cinderella, the magic ends at the stroke of midnight. Austria and Hungary look at each other ruefully, a tacit acknowledgement that their time in the woods is over. For now.

Hungary makes a point to slip her own glove back on, but allows Austria to rebutton it simply because it's hard to do on her own. Despite the quiet intimacy having passed, her body feels lighter than it has in a long, long time. Her feet don't hurt nearly as badly as before, which helps.

“Would you care to be escorted back to Buda?” Austria asks courteously, face showing he already knows what the answer will be.

“No, I'll take myself home,” Hungary says before adding, “This time.”

However this ends up working out, Hungary doesn't think she'll ever forget the look of delighted joy that flashes over Austria's face before disappearing in the blink of an eye.

“Then farewell,” Austria says, with a bow so elegant it would make any courtier burst into tears of joyful appreciation.

“Until next we meet,” Hungary responds and curtsies in return, quite nicely considering the mess of her appearance.

Good-byes exchanged, Austria turns to the west.  Hungary turns to the east. the temptation to glance backwards one more time reigns, but neither knows if the other gives in to it. Another moment passes, and then the bank by the river is empty as if no one had ever been there at all. The Leitha flows on as it always has, patiently keeping its place of sanctuary safe until a year's time has passed once more.

* * *

 

Me: AusHun Week! So great! I can’t wait to write some stuff for one of my favorite ships ever!  
Me: *writes a bittersweet character study of Hungarian history in which Austria doesn’t even appear till the last third, twice*  
Me: I’m so good at this. :) :) :)

Anyway, as much as AusHun is a hardcore Ship of Ships for me and I love Cute Domestic Old Marrieds AusHun, to say their relationship has had its ups and downs would be a considerable understatement. And the circumstances leading to the Compromise of 1867 definitely stemmed from one of the worse lows of Austro-Hungarian relations. To say Austria came down on the Hungarian rebels during the Hungarian War of Independence in 1848 like a ton of bricks would be unkind to the bricks. Hungary was _this_ close to breaking free, enough that if Austria hadn’t managed to get reinforcements from Russia to tag in she would have done it. And then he executed the rebel generals, put out death warrants for those who managed to escape like Andrássy and Kossuth, and stripped Hungary of her ancient rights and constitution to rule her under brutal martial law.

And thus things might have bopped merrily along for Austria except for a little one-two whammy called the [ Austro-Prussian War ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Austro-Prussian_War) and the [ Second Italian War of Independence ](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Second_Italian_War_of_Independence) . His empire being on the verge of total collapse as well as shut out from the German Confederation Prussia had unified put Austria in a conciliatory sort of mood, _for some reason_ , and negotiations with the Magyars were opened. Hungary, for her part saw an opportunity with a limited window of time in Austria’s weak position. Still remembering how easily her army had been routed by Russia’s, and recognizing if she didn’t make a move the one or more of the many Slav groups in the Kingdom of Hungary would move to deal with the Austrians instead, was also open to a settlement.

That anything would have even been agreed was far from a given. Though Emperor Franz Joseph recognized an agreement with Hungary was needed to keep the Austrian Empire from absolutely splintering, he was and always would be a hardcore autocrat who viewed giving up even a fraction of his authority as blasphemy against his divine office. The vast majority of (the Magyar part of) Hungary wanted nothing less than full independence, and had _very_ fresh memories of the 1848 rebellions as well as a strong hatred for Austria. (The Slav parts of Hungary, as well as the Romanian parts, were shit out of luck and stuck in a state that argued for freedom and self-determination...if you were a Magyar, and keep dreaming for that autonomy otherwise. Except don’t, because it’s not going to happen. Now go and practice Hungarian some more!

(As for Croatia (or _Horvát Királyság_ /Kingdom of Croatia as Andrássy calls him here) was the only minority group in the Kingdom of Hungary who did have something of a protected, autonomous status, being that Croatia actually entered a personal union with Hungary in 1102 instead of being conquered. After the Austro-Hungarian Compromise was passed, a separate Compromise was arranged between Hungary and Croatia, resulting the creation of the Kingdom of Croatia-Slavonia. Which was liked in Croatia even less than the Austro-Hungarian Compromise was in Hungary.)

But fortunately for Hungary, she had two absolutely brilliant and indispensable statesmen, Ferenc Deák and Gyula Andrássy, who were both pragmatists who felt a sustained autonomous Hungarian state would only be possible as long as defense and foreign affairs were shared with Austria. Even more fortunately, Hungary had a vital advocate in Empress Elisabeth of Austria, who had fallen in love with the land of Hungary and the Magyar culture and was relentless in seeing Hungary’s cause advanced to her husband Franz Joseph. And thus the Austro-Hungarian Compromise was reached, signed by Deák and Andrássy and ratified by the restored Hungarian Diet on May 29th, 1867, and officially capped off with the crowning of Franz Joseph and Elisabeth as King and Queen of Hungary on June 8th, 1867.

Even though the deal was done, tensions were still high and remained that way for a long time. Ask anyone familiar with Austro-Hungarian history who the Compromise was a better deal for (or if it was a good deal period, and if it just fueled the problems that utterly crumbled Austria-Hungary in WW1 or if those problems would have just happened anyway) and you’ll get a different answer every time. I wasn’t able to find what specifically was done to celebrate the first anniversary of the Compromise, but presumably the occasion was marked so yay for artistic license.

Buda and Pest were separate cities in 1867, as they were for most of Hungary's history. They only unified along with Óbuda to form Budapest in 1873. Franz Joseph also supported a ton of construction projects there, turning what was a pretty small and rural city compared to most other European capitals into the beautiful gem of Art Nouveau-era architecture Budapest is so famous for being today.

 _Piros, fehér, zöld_ is the red, white, green of the Hungarian tricolor. The stripes were made horizontal to avoid being confused with the Italian flag. The Dual-Monarchy era flag also had the Hungarian coat-of-arms right in the center.

Technically speaking, Buda Castle was just known as the Royal Place for most of its history, including during the Dual Monarchy.

 _Díszmagyar_ is the [ traditional Hungarian court dress ](http://gondoljvelem.blogspot.com/2012/10/the-court-dress-of-hungary-diszmagyar.html) , and very beautiful. The dress Hungary is wearing here is [ this one ](http://ephemeral-elegance.tumblr.com/post/124171329863/spangled-and-metallic-embroidered-hungarian-court), originally worn by the Countess György Majláth to the original coronation of Franz Joseph in 1867. Hey, the Nation deserves the most swag dress at her anniversary party, after all.

I think most Hungary fans know about the Battle of Mohács in 1526 against the Ottoman Empire, but it absolutely can’t be stated enough how utterly devastating it was for the Kingdom of Hungary.  In a _single day_ the kingdom was torn into three, the king was dead, much of the nobility had been killed as well as the at least 14,000 soldiers who also died in combat, and the entire country was basically free for the taking-which the Ottomans and Habsburgs did. It would take nearly four hundred years for Hungary to become fully independent again. The only thing remotely comparable in Hungarian history was the Treaty of Trianon after its loss in World War I, which saw Hungary stripped of two-thirds of lands it had possessed for centuries, and is still a _very_ sore point for Hungarians today.

I went back and forth on how the Kingdom of Hungary should be addressed in a formal situation, the people who think of these things having never thought how the Nation itself would need to be called. I settled on “Highness” as an appropriate title for an immediate member of the royal family-though really wouldn’t the royal family be members of Hungary? “Apostolic” in the title is specific to the Kingdom of Hungary alone. I did my best? I’m also not sure if Andrássy’s address is accurate either, considering he was both the prime minister and a count, but this was my best approximation.

“The Lands of the Crown of Saint Stephen” was the official title of the Hungarian half of Austria-Hungary.

Mihály Zichy was a Hungarian painter who did do more traditional portraiture, but is probably better known for his considerably more naughty drawings. (Which I actually find quite wonderful). Just be aware if you decided to google them with SafeSearch off.

Franz Liszt was born in a German speaking part of Hungary and was never able to speak the language (though he tried to learn), but very much thought of himself as a Magyar and a Hungarian patriot.

Elisabeth of Austria was the Empress of Austria and Queen of Hungary. And she really was the [most beautiful woman in the world](https://life-imitates-art-far-more.tumblr.com/image/139509185854). [Just](https://www.beol.hu/wp-content/uploads/2018/06/ErzsebetkiralynephotoRabending.jpg?mwfmv=1528463975) [look](https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/4/47/Elisabeth-%C3%96sterreich-1867.jpg/606px-Elisabeth-%C3%96sterreich-1867.jpg) [at](https://thenewroyaltyworldblog.files.wordpress.com/2017/12/e40cebeace8238b033b587d54b347775-elisabeth-austria.jpg) [her](https://mimimatthews.files.wordpress.com/2015/10/empress-elisabeth-of-austria-by-georg-raab-1867.jpg)! Unfortunately, the minute she met her cousin (oh, _royalty_ )/the Emperor of Austria Franz Joseph in 1853 (at a meeting that was supposed to cement an engagement between him and her sister Helene), and he decided he only wanted to marry Elisabeth, her life was set upon a course of stifling misery and eventual tragedy. Sisi as she was known (and NOT SISSI, which she never referred to herself by), had grown up in a very relaxed, informal household under her father the Duke Maximilian Joseph in Bavaria. (Seriously, take some time to read about it, it’s pretty wild). A shy, naive, fifteen year old country duchess from Bavaria was thrust into role of Empress of Austria in a little over eight months.

It went about as well as one would expect. Sisi was utterly isolated at the Austrian court, not comfortable around crowds and formal situations, and in general treated as an child unfit for her role. This was compounded by her mother-in-law/aunt, the Archduchess Sophie, who never hid her opinion of Elisabeth as anything more than a vessel to produce heirs and acted as Empress in official functions as well as politically more than the actual Empress. Even more unfortunately, for all Franz Joseph loved Elisabeth (and did for the rest his life, long after any chance of mutual romance was dead), he never understood her, her needs, or that he should make any sort of compromises on his end to make their relationship work. Franz Joseph was always quick to defer to his mother over his wife, including the part where Sophie essentially took Elisabeth’s first three children away from her and raised them herself. As you can guess, this not only made things worse, but engineered a huge disconnect between Elisabeth and most of her children that would have _severe_ consequences later.

After the Crown Prince Rudolf was born, leaving Elisabeth free of the responsibility to produce any more heirs, the older, wiser, and more cynical Empress had by this point acquired the fortitude and political capital to do as she pleased. Restless by nature, she traveled constantly and avoided Vienna and her husband at all costs. The only thing that brought her back was the cause of Hungary. She had fallen for the wilder, romantic country, one very much in tune with the sensitive and dreamy Elisabeth compared to rigid, traditional Austria. Recognizing they’d have a powerful advocate in Elisabeth, who at this point was at the peak of her beauty and _enormously_ popular in Hungary, Deák and Andrássy in particular (who she become close with to the point they were rumored to be lovers, though nothing has ever been proven) reached out to her. Acting as an intermediary between Austria and Hungary, Elisabeth was absolutely essential to making the Compromise happen and seem a legitimate deal for Hungary even in its unpopularity.

Part of this assistance was agreeing to have another child. Elisabeth quickly became pregnant after the Compromise was passed, and more significantly chose to give birth to her child at Buda Castle. It was the first time a royal child had been born in Hungary in centuries, and the notion was seriously raised that had it been a boy the child could have become king of an independent Hungary, separating it from Austria. As a girl was born, the Archduchess Marie Valerie, it was a non-issue. (Ironically, Marie Valerie, who was born in Hungary, baptised in Buda, and only allowed to speak Hungarian to her mother, grew to have a severe apathy for Hungary in part because of the persistent rumor that Andrássy was her real father. Even as she grew up to strongly resemble Franz Joseph and the rumor died, the apathy lasted. But they’ve still kept the bridge with her name on it between Hungary and Slovakia, which I guess is nice?)

If you somehow couldn’t tell Sisi is one of my two favorite historical figures, by the way...well yeah, she is. (The other is Valdemar Atterdag, for the curious).

Királyhida is the now-Austrian town of Bruckneudorf, but in the Dual Monarchy days was in a German-speaking region of western Hungary. Regardless of the local language preferences, the town was required to have Magyar name.

@emperorfranzjoseph: @ErzherzogtumÖsterreich [  bitch stole my look ](https://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/2187/3447/products/Franz_Joseph_I_Emperor_of_Austria_wearing_the_dress_uniform_of_an_Austrian_Field_Marshal_with_the_Great_Star_of_the_Military_Order_of_Maria_Theresa.Jpg?v=1505903659) #ÖsterRUDE #whoworeitbetter #fieldmarshaleleganza

I figured “Austria, sir” would serve as a nice substitution for “Austria-san” as far as tone and place of social rank is concerned. And yes, over many centuries Austria and Hungary have done the do with each other. If you don’t think Austria was in boner city after seeing Hungary wail on Prussia during the War of Austria Succession, well, congrats on being totally wrong.

Thank you to all who read this fic and all the brave souls who actually got all through the notes section. You guys are the real MVPs. And I swear I’ll try to do an actual happy AusHun that features a kiss racier than the hand...someday...


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